The Ballad of Elsa Nell
by eskimonell
Summary: A song fic/parody. OF a very old and very graphic song. Read with extreme caution


The Ballad of Elsa Nell

This is a song-fic based on the Ballad of Eskimo Nell

Eskimo Nell is one of most obscene songs every written and sang. SO...

This will be atrocious, bawdy, crude, disgusting, evil and foul...

you name it, it's in here.

I expect that it will be taken down... soon

Read at your risk.

You Will be OFFENDED

In the stables of the Castle of Arendelle.

Kristoff is strumming his lute. He remarks to Sven, "You know those new sailors from Alaska had a great ballad."

Sven nods his head.

"I think... I can change a few words..." A slightly drunken slur in his voice, as he mumbles.

"Yeah." He looks at Sven and begins. "How about this?"

When a man rows old, & his balls grow cold

And the tip of his prick turns blue,

It bends in the middle like a 1 string fiddle

He can tell you a tale or two.

So pull up a chair, and stand me a drink

And a tale to you I'll tell

Of Dead-eye Hans and Duke Weasel

And a harlot called Elsa Nell.

When Dead-eye Hans and Duke Weasel

Go forth in search of fun

It's Dead-eye Hans that slings the prick

And Duke Weasel the gun.

When Dead-eye Hans and Duke Weasel

Are sore, depressed and sad

It's always a cunt that bears the brunt

But the shooting ain't so bad.

Now Dead-eye Hans and Duke Weasel

Live down by Weaseltown.

And such was their luck they'd had no fuck

For nigh on half a week.

Just a moose or two and a caribou,

And a bison cow or so,

And for Dead-eye Hans with his kingly prick

This fucking was mighty slow.

So do or dare this horny pair

Set forth for the Arendelle,

Dead-eye Hans with his mighty prick

And Weasel with his gun in his hand.

And as they blazed their noisy trail

No man their path withstood,

And many a bride, her husband's pride

A pregnant widow stood.

They reached the strand of the Arendelle

At the height of a blazing noon,

And to slack their thirst and do their worst

They sought Oaken's Saloon.

And as they pushed the great doors wide

Both prick and gun flashed free.

"According to sex, you bleeding wrecks,

You drink or fuck with me."

They'd heard of Dead-eye Hans,

From the Arctic to the Antarctic

So with scarcely worse than a muttered cur

Those dagos sought the bar.

The girls too knew his playful ways

Down on the Arendelle,

And forty whores pulled down their drawer

At Dead-eye Hans's command.

They saw the fingers of Duke Weasel

Itch on the trigger grip

And they didn't wait, at fearful rate

Those whores began to strip.

Now Dead-eye Hans was breathing quick

With lecherous snorts and grunts

So forty arses were bared to view

And likewise forty cunts.

Now forty cunts and forty arses

If you can use your wits,

And if you're slick at arithmetic,

Makes exactly eighty tits.

Now eighty tits are a gladsome sight

For a man with a raging stand

It may be rare in the Southern Isles

But not on the Arendelle.

Now Dead-eye Hans had fucked a few

On the last preceding night,

This he had done just to show his fun

And to wet his appetite.

His phallic limb was in fucking trim,

As he backed and took a run

He made a dart at the nearest tart

And scored a hole in one.

He bore her to the sandy floor

And there he fucked her fine

And though she grinned

It put the wind up the other thirty-nine.

When Dead-eye Hans lets loose his prick

He's got no time to spare,

For speed & length combined with strength

He fairly singes hair.

He made a dart at the next spare tart,

When into that harlot's hell

Strode a gentle maid who was unafraid,

And her name it was Elsa Nell.

By this time Hans had got his prick

Well into number two

When Elsa Nell let out a yell,

She bawled to him, "Hey you."

He gave a flick of his muscular prick

And the girl flew over his head,

And he wheeled about with an angry shout.

His face and his prick were red.

She glanced our hero up and down,

His looks she seemed to decry,

With utter scorn she glimpsed the horn

That rose from his hairy thigh.

She blew the smoke from her cigarette

Over his steaming knob

So utterly beat was Duke Weasel

He failed to do his job.

It was Elsa Nell who broke the spell

In accents clear and cool,

"You cunt struck shrimp of a Southern Isles pimp.

You call that thing a tool?"

"If this here town can't take that down,"

She sneered to those cowering whores,

"There's one little cunt can do the stunt,

It's Elsa Nell's, not yours."

She stripped her garments one by one

With an air of conscious pride

And as she stood in her womanhood

They saw the great divide.

She seated herself on a table top

Where someone had left his glass,

With a twitch of her tits she crushed it to bits

Between the cheeks of her arse.

She flexed her knees with supple ease,

And spread her legs apart,

With a friendly nod to the mangy sod

She gave him the cue to start.

But Dead-eye Hans knew a trick or two,

He meant to take his time,

And a girl like this was fucking bliss

So he played the pantomime.

He flexed his arse hole to and fro

And made his balls inflate

Until they looked like granite knobs

Up on a garden gate.

He blew his anus inside out,

His balls increased in size,

His mighty prick grew twice as thick

Till it almost reached his eyes.

He polished it up with alcohol,

And made it steaming hot

To finish the job he sprinkled the knob

With a cayenne pepperpot.

Then neither did he take a run

Nor did he take a leap,

Nor did he stoop, but took a swoop

And a steady forward creep.

With piercing eye he took a sight

Along his mighty tool,

And the steady grin as he pushed it in

Was calculatedly cool.

Have you seen the giant pistons

On the mighty Railroad.

With the driving force of a thousand horse.

Well, you know what pistons are.

Or you think you do. But you've yet to learn

The ins and outs of the trick

Of the work that's done on a non-stop run

By a guy like Dead-eye Hans.

But Elsa Nell was no infidel,

As good as whole harem

With the strength of ten in her abdomen

And the rock of ages between.

Amid stops she could take the stream

Like the flush of a watercloset,

And she gripped his cock like a Yale Lock

On the National Safe Deposit.

But Dead-eye Hans could not come quick,

He meant to conserve his powers,

If he'd a mind he'd grind and grind

For a couple of solid hours.

Nell lay for a while with a subtle smile,

The grip of her cunt grew keener,

Squeezing her thigh she sucked him dry

With the ease of a vacuum cleaner.

She performed this trick in a way so slick

As to set in complete defiance

The basic cause and primary laws

That govern sexual science.

She calmly rode through the phallic code

Which for years had stood the test,

And the ancient rules of the classic schools

In a second or two went North.

And so my friends we come to the end

Of copulation's classic

The effect on Hans was sudden and quick

And akin to an anesthetic.

He fell to the floor, and knew no more

His passions extinct and dead

And he did not shout as his prick fell out

Though 'twas stripped right down to a thread.

Then Duke Weasel jumped to his feet

To avenge his pal's affront,

With jarring jolt of his blue-nosed

Colt He rammed it up her cunt.

He rammed it up to the trigger grip

And fired three times three

But to his surprise she closed her eyes

And smiled in ecstasy.

She jumped to her feet with a smile so sweet

"Bully", she said, "for you.

Though I had guessed that was the best

That you two poor cocks could do."

"When next, my friend, that you intend

To sally forth for fun

Buy Dead-eye Hans a sugar stick

And yourself an elephant gun.

"I'm going back to the frozen North,

Where the pricks are hard and strong.

Back to the land of the frozen stand

Where the nights are six months long.

"It's hard as tin when they put it in

In the land where spunk is spunk

Not a trickling stream of lukewarm cream

But a solid frozen chunk.

"Back to the land where they understand

What it means to fornicate,

Where even the dead sleep two in a bed

And the babies masturbate.

"Back to the land of the grinding gland,

Where the walrus plays with his prong,

Where the polar bear wanks off in his lair

That's where they'll sing this song.

"They'll tell this tale on the Arctic Trail

Where the nights are sixty below,

Where it's so damn cold that the Johnnies are sold

Wrapped up in a ball of snow.

"In the valley of death with baited breath

That's where they'll sing it too,

Where the skeletons rattle in sexual battle,

And the rotting corpses screw.

"Back to the land where men are men,

North Mountain,

And there I'll spend my worthy end

For the North is calling: 'Come.'"

So Dead-eye Hans and Duke Weasel

Slunk out of the Arendelle,

Dead-eye Hans with his useless prick

And Duke Weasel with no gun in his hand.

Kristoff shivers and looks around the stables at the ice.

He looks at Sven, "I'd dead, right?"

Sven nods 'yes' with vigour.

He places the lute on a pile of hay.

Turns around and sees Elsa and Anna...dressed in their leather bondage suits. One White as snow, the other as black as Night.

He lays on the floor, his hands on the head. "Forgive me, Mistress and Master" He begs.

The sound of a whip...full of Ice. Another whip of leather...

Pain and Pleasure... who knew?

eskimonell69


End file.
